Walk Away as the Door Slams

by thatselmo

Summary:

"Nat lets out a breathless laugh, eyes fluttering open. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”

Lottie leans down, nose brushing Nat’s, lips barely touching. “I told you at the bar,” she whispers. “You want me to wreck you.”

Nat just groans, dragging her nails lightly down Lottie’s sides, breath coming quicker now, every nerve in her body on high alert. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe I do.”

And fuck, she does. More than she can admit."

 

Or

Natalie Scatorccio is the lead singer of an indie band, Clam Slam—addicted to drugs, and the feeling of being wanted.

Lottie is everything she’s not: clean, calm, controlled... and far too interested.

It starts with a show. It doesn’t stop there.

(read the tags)

Chapter 1: ghost girl

Natalie’s room is a mess. Not in the curated, Instagram-friendly way, but in the true, lived-in chaos of someone who barely sees daylight. The blackout curtains are always drawn, keeping the place in a permanent, smoke-stained dusk, the only light a dim, yellowed glow from a flickering desk lamp that buzzes when it’s too quiet. The walls are plastered with posters, all their own, designed by Kevyn in fucking Canva but still somehow perfect. DIY in the purest sense, the rough, pixelated edges and bold, slashed fonts a testament to every grimy dive bar they’ve ever played.

 

Their band, Clam Slam, started in Kevyn’s dad’s garage in New Jersey back in junior year. Seven years ago, but it feels longer, like a lifetime measured in cigarette burns and sticky bar floors. It happened naturally enough—Natalie used to get high with Kevyn and Travis under the bleachers every free period, talking shit about their teachers and dreaming about starting a band. It felt like a joke at first, just another dumb stoner fantasy, until Kevyn showed up one day, eyes wide and hair even messier than usual, saying his dad got him a drum kit for Christmas.

 

That was the start of it. Kevyn on drums, Travis on bass, and Nat singing, her old, beaten-up guitar slung over her shoulder. It was raw and loud, a messy blend of off-key shouting and clashing chords, but it felt right. Still, something was missing, an edge, a bite. Natalie struggled to multitask, her fingers fumbling when she tried to play and scream into the mic at the same time, especially after a few joints or a couple of beers.

 

Then Mari came into the picture. It was unexpected—she was actually kind of popular, hung out with the cheerleaders and the football guys, never even looked their way in the hallways. But she started hanging around their practices, leaning against the garage door frame, arms crossed and eyes sharp as she watched them stumble through half-baked covers of Misfits songs. She was dating Travis back then, and they all figured that’s why she was there, but one day, after a particularly rough set, she spoke up.

 

“You guys need a lead guitarist,” she’d said, flipping her hair over her shoulder, her tone bored but cutting. “You’re falling apart up there.”

 

Kevyn had bristled, Travis rolled his eyes, but Nat had just raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the amp, fingers still wrapped around the neck of her guitar. “Yeah? You offering?”

 

Mari had snorted, stepped forward, and taken the guitar from Nat’s hands without asking. She ran her fingers over the strings, tuning it by ear, then launched into a blistering, flawless riff that left them all gaping. They begged her to join after that, their pride too bruised to pretend they didn’t need her. She played hard to get for a few days, showing up to practice, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, acting disinterested until she finally caved.

 

Mari and Travis broke up a few months later. He was a dick back then, full of teenage angst and dumb, macho bullshit, constantly talking about how girls with high body counts were sluts while guys who slept around were legends. Nat almost broke his nose once when he started running his mouth, and he’s been a little quieter around her ever since.

 

He’s mellowed out, though, probably all the shrooms he started doing in college. He’s almost unrecognizable now, chilled out, more likely to spend a Saturday night tripping in the park than starting a fight in a parking lot. Except when he’s on stage, hyped up on too many lines, pulling girls onto the stage and slipping into some wild, rock-god persona that makes Nat want to roll her eyes and shove him off the edge of the stage.

 

Kevyn’s still Kevyn—shy and awkward when someone compliments his playing. He only ever smokes weed and drinks, never touching the harder stuff, too innocent for that. He’s the heart of the band, the steady, unshakable beat behind their chaotic sound, the one who keeps them from flying apart at the seams.

 

Mari adapted quickly, leaning into the chaos, drinking with them, popping the occasional pill, sometimes even snorting a line if the night’s long enough and the whiskey’s strong enough. She’s a bitch, sharp-tongued and quick to judge, but there’s a loyalty to her that Nat’s come to appreciate, a fierce, protective streak that cuts through her sarcasm like a blade.

 

They’ve been sleeping together on and off for about a year, only when there’s no one hotter in the crowd and Nat’s not too out of her mind to know what she’s doing. It’s platonic, the kind of messed-up, half-joking, half-serious connection that comes from spending too many nights in cramped vans and dark backstage corners. It doesn’t mean anything, really, just a way to burn off the adrenaline when the show’s over and the world feels too loud.

 

Natalie writes most of the songs, screaming into the mic at shows until her throat’s raw, fingers cramping around the neck of her guitar. She’s the biggest mess of them all, stumbling through her days in a haze of smoke and bad decisions. She starts her mornings (afternoons, really) with a joint, maybe a line if she’s trying to write, the chemical buzz sharpening the edges of her thoughts, pulling the words from her brain like loose teeth. The nights usually end in a blur of pills, powders, and whatever else someone passes to her before the show, her body vibrating like a struck chord, head too full of static to remember her own lyrics.

 

She’s sitting on her bed now, stripped down to her bra and underwear, the heat in her room unbearable, her skin sticking to the sheets. She leans over the notepad on her lap, pen scratching against the paper, the words smudged and angry, crossing themselves out as fast as she can write them. Her back aches, her head feels too heavy, and her skin prickles with sweat, every nerve on fire.

 

There’s a sharp knock at her door, cutting through the haze, and she grimaces, dropping her pen with a clatter. “Fuck off,” she mutters, not bothering to look up.

 

The door creaks open anyway, and she rolls her eyes as Mari steps inside, dark eyes sweeping over the chaos of Nat’s room, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Are you hungry?” she asks, voice flat but tinged with something softer, a hint of concern that Nat’s too tired to process.

 

“I’m good,” Nat mumbles, eyes dropping back to the half-finished lyrics in front of her.

 

Mari sighs, louder this time, and the sound cuts through Nat’s skull like a knife. “You haven’t eaten in like eighteen hours. You’re gonna die.”

 

“I’ll come out in a minute,” Nat snaps, already reaching for the pen again, fingers twitching with a restless, unfocused energy.

 

Mari hovers in the doorway for a moment longer, lips pursed, eyes narrowed like she’s about to say something else, but then she just clicks her tongue, turns on her heel, and shuts the door behind her, the sound echoing through the apartment.

 

Natalie closes her eyes, drops her head back against the wall, and breathes out slowly, the tension settling back into her bones like an old ache. The air in her room is thick, humid, sticking to her skin like a fever, the faint, musty smell of old sweat and stale smoke clinging to the walls. She stares at the cracked ceiling, feeling the ache in her lower back, the dull throb in her temples. She taps her pen against the notebook on her lap, ink smudged where her hand dragged across the paper, lyrics scrawled in half-legible loops. She can hear Mari clanging around in the kitchen, the sharp, metallic crash of pots and pans a clear, unsubtle message: get your ass in here and eat.

 

They live together, all four of them, crammed into Mari’s aunt’s old place on the Lower East Side. Three bedrooms, peeling wallpaper, and a sloping floor that creaks whenever someone moves too quickly. It’s a dump, but it’s cheap, and that’s all that matters. Mari snagged the biggest room for herself, a small price to pay for scoring the place, and Nat got her own room too, mostly because she’s a girl and a little bit of a fuckboy, and no one wants to watch her screw some random groupie in the living room. Well, maybe the boys wouldn’t mind, but that’s a line none of them are willing to cross. Kevyn and Travis share the third bedroom, though it’s more of a loose arrangement at this point—Kevyn actually sleeps in there most nights, while Travis claims the couch in the living room, only swapping places when he drags some drunk girl home from a bar. It’s a weird, messy setup, but it works.

 

Nat considers doing a line to kill her appetite, the baggie still within reach on her cluttered nightstand, but she knows Mari’s going to barge in and force-feed her if she tries that, so she rolls a joint instead, the ritual movements familiar, calming. She dresses before heading to the kitchen, pulling on a loose, oversized tee that clings to her sweaty skin. She’s still too hot, her hair sticking to the back of her neck, but she can’t tell if it’s the apartment or her own feverish pulse making her feel like she’s burning from the inside out.

 

The kitchen-slash-living room-slash-Travis’s bedroom is half-lit, the faded yellow bulbs overhead casting long, uneven shadows across the mismatched furniture. The place is sort of clean, or at least as clean as it ever gets—takeout boxes stacked by the trash, beer cans scattered across the coffee table, an ashtray overflowing with half-crushed cigarettes. The couch is sagging, the beanbag by the window looks like it might collapse if anyone heavier than Nat throws themselves onto it, and the rug smells faintly of spilled whiskey and stale weed. It’s a disaster, but it’s theirs, and there’s something comforting in that, in the chaos they’ve built together.

 

Mari stands at the stove, tossing something around in a pan, her dark hair pulled back into a messy knot, tattooed shoulders bare beneath her tank top. She doesn’t bother looking up as Nat enters, too focused on whatever she’s burning. Travis is sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out across the coffee table, his tattooed arms draped over the back cushions like he owns the place. He perks up as Nat lights the joint, the spark flaring bright in the dim room, and holds out a hand, eyes already glassy from whatever he smoked earlier.

 

“Let me have some,” he says, wiggling his fingers like a child begging for candy.

 

“Fuck off,” Nat grumbles, taking a long, slow drag, feeling the smoke curl into her lungs, thick and comforting, the tension in her shoulders easing almost instantly. She exhales, the cloud of smoke drifting toward the cracked window, where it mingles with the humid summer air.

 

“Come on, Nat,” Travis whines, leaning forward, eyes locked on the joint like a dog begging for scraps. “Sharing is caring.”

 

She rolls her eyes but passes it to him, her fingers brushing his for a split second, skin clammy and warm. He takes a greedy hit, coughing a little as he leans back, eyes watering. Nat drops into the beanbag by the window, feeling the worn fabric sag beneath her, the stuffing shifting uncomfortably under her weight.

 

“You’re such a fiend,” she mutters, rubbing her eyes, the sudden rush of THC making her head spin, her pulse slow. Travis just grins, blowing a lazy smoke ring in her direction, his head lolling back against the couch.

 

They pass the joint back and forth, trading half-baked insults, the kind of aimless, stoned conversation that never leads anywhere but feels comforting in its own way, the words blurring together, the world softening around the edges.

 

Mari sets the food on the small, scuffed table by the time they finish, and turns, hands on her hips, glaring at the two of them like a disapproving mother. “Guys, come on. I’ve been cooking for hours. At least help me set the table.”

 

Nat groans, dragging herself to her feet, her limbs heavy, her head already slipping into that hazy, unfocused space where everything feels too slow, too soft. She stumbles toward the table, pausing to grab a few cans of beer from the fridge, tossing one to Travis, who catches it with a grin.

 

“You could actually help,” Mari snaps as Nat drops into a chair, cracking open the can with a sharp hiss, foam spilling onto the table. “You’re not gonna eat with your hands like some kind of feral animal, are you?”

 

Nat rolls her eyes, setting the can down with a clatter. “Calm down, I’m getting the fucking cutlery.” She grabs a handful of mismatched forks and knives from the drawer, slapping them onto the table with a careless clatter, the metal rattling against the chipped plates.

 

“Where’s Kevyn?” Travis asks as he flops into the chair across from Nat, still rubbing his eyes.

 

“He went to the record store,” Mari replies, already piling food onto her plate. She’s made stir-fried rice with fried chicken in hot honey sauce, the smell filling the small kitchen, making Nat’s stomach twist with sudden, sharp hunger.

 

They eat in relative silence for a few minutes, the clink of forks against plates filling the gaps in their conversation, the sound oddly comforting. Nat mumbles a compliment around a mouthful of rice, and Mari snorts, rolling her eyes. “You look like shit, Nat. We have to leave in two hours. You better shower.”

 

Nat just laughs, leaning back in her chair, stretching her legs out under the table. “Or what, you’re not eating me out after?” she shoots back, eyes glinting, and Travis chokes on his beer, sputtering as he slams the can down, foam dripping onto the table.

 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, wiping his mouth, his face twisted in disgust. “I know you two fuck sometimes, but it’s still disturbing to hear.”

 

Mari just smirks, flicking a piece of rice at Nat. “We’ll see how coherent you are,” she says, leaning in, her eyes dark and sharp. “And right now, the answer is no, not unless you make yourself look nice.”

 

Nat grins, leaning forward, her foot nudging Mari’s under the table. “I can be nice,” she says, voice low, teasing. “You’ll see.”

 

They keep flirting, the tension sparking between them, Travis groaning dramatically every time they cross the line, but none of them move, the table settling into a familiar rhythm.

 

Natalie steps out of the bathroom, towel-dried hair hanging around her face in messy, uneven waves, the blonde catching the dim, flickering lights overhead. She pulls on a pair of ripped fishnet stockings, the holes stretching around her knees and thighs, a black mini skirt slung low on her hips. She tugs an old band tee over her head, the fabric soft and worn, the neckline cut wide enough to slip off one shoulder. She smudges a line of black eyeliner under each eye, dragging her finger to blur the edges, the dark circles beneath her eyes blending into the deliberate mess. She checks her reflection in the cracked mirror for a split second, sneering at her own hollow eyes before grabbing her cigarettes and shoving them into her bag.

 

The bar is already packed by the time they get there, the walls vibrating with the low thrum of bass from the speakers, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and the sour bite of cheap whiskey. The place is bigger than the usual dive, a little less grimy, the kind of place where the stage lights actually work and the sound system doesn’t cut out mid-set. It’s still a shithole, but it feels like a step up, like they’re inching closer to something real.

 

They squeeze into the cramped, graffiti-covered green room in the back, the walls covered in stickers and Sharpie scrawls, the air heavy with the mingled smells of beer and mildew. Natalie drops onto a sound box against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of her, her fishnets catching on the rough edge of the case. Travis leans against the wall beside her, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s already hearing the first notes of their set, and Mari is perched on a stack of amps, eyes sharp as she watches Nat pull a small metal tray from her bag.

 

Nat sets the tray on her lap, tapping a small baggie of white powder onto the scratched surface, the fine dust catching in the dim light. She drags the edge of her pinky through the pile, feeling the cool, chemical grit beneath her nail, and starts forming a line, the familiar, mechanical movements calming her frayed nerves.

 

Mari narrows her eyes, her jaw tightening, but she doesn’t say anything, just watches as Nat pulls a crumpled dollar bill from her pocket, rolling it into a tight tube. Nat catches Mari’s stare, the sharp line of her jaw, the way her eyes linger on the powder. She smirks, leaning in a little closer, the rolled bill still hovering above the tray.

 

“You want a hit or not?” she murmurs, her voice low, teasing, eyes flicking up to meet Mari’s. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

 

Mari scoffs but leans in, brushing her hair out of her face before bending down to snort half the line in one quick, practiced move. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, her eyes glassy and bright, and passes the bill back to Nat.

 

“Don’t get too generous on me, Scatorccio,” she says, leaning back, one booted foot tapping against the concrete floor. “I might start expecting it.”

 

Nat snorts, bending down to finish the line, the powder burning sharp and immediate, her head snapping back as the familiar rush hits. She wipes her nose, feeling the tingling spread down her throat, her fingers already twitching, her heartbeat picking up, every nerve buzzing like a live wire.

 

Travis chuckles, shaking his head as he watches them, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against the wall. “You two are a fucking mess,” he says, the words barely audible over the muffled thump of the bass outside.

 

Nat grins, licking her teeth, feeling the bitter, metallic taste of the cocaine still clinging to the back of her throat. “Like you’re one to talk,” she shoots back, leaning over to nudge his shoulder with hers. “You’re the one who puked on stage last week.”

 

“Hey, that was one time,” he protests, holding up his hands in mock offense. “And I still finished the set, thank you very much.”

 

Mari rolls her eyes, flicking a stray piece of lint from her ripped jeans. “Barely. You looked like you were about to drop dead up there.”

 

“Yeah, well, at least I’m not a control freak like you,” Travis fires back, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes glinting in the low light. “I saw you tuning your guitar for, like, an hour before we left. What’s that about?”

 

“Professionalism, dumbass,” Mari snaps, leaning forward to flick his forehead with her chipped black nails. “Something you clearly don’t understand.”

 

Nat just laughs, the sound sharp and raw in her throat, feeling the familiar, jittery energy building in her chest, her hands already twitching, fingers flexing like she’s gripping the neck of her guitar. She glances down at her lap, the empty tray balanced across her thighs, and brushes the last traces of powder onto the floor, rubbing her fingers together to shake off the residue.

 

Kevyn pokes his head into the room, his hair a tangled, frizzy mess around his face. “Yo, you guys ready? They want us on in five.”

 

Nat shoves the tray back into her bag, wipes her nose with the back of her hand, and pushes herself to her feet, the world tilting slightly as the cocaine hits her full force, her heart pounding like a drum, every nerve in her body buzzing with anticipation.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, brushing past him, her shoulder bumping his as she heads for the door. She fishes through her bra, fingers fumbling against the rough lace, and pulls out a small, battered pill bottle, dumping two into her palm. She swallows them dry, the bitter chalk sticking to her tongue, her throat clenching around the taste. It’s too late to care what they are—something to keep her from crashing, something to keep the high from slipping away before the first chord hits.

 

She steps out onto the stage, the lights blinding, the heat immediate and suffocating, the air thick with sweat and smoke. The crowd surges forward, a living, breathing thing, voices shouting her name, hands reaching for the stage, and for a moment, she feels like she’s floating, her body dissolving into the noise, the chaos, the blinding pulse of the stage lights.

 

She grabs the mic, fingers tight around the metal, the coolness grounding her, and closes her eyes as the first notes hit, the world dropping away, her pulse syncing with the bass, the chaos fading into a single, clear note. She opens her mouth, feels the vibration in her throat, the familiar, rasping strain of her voice, and lets the words spill out, every line cutting through the haze like a blade, sharp and real and hers.

 

For a few precious moments, she’s free.

 

The post-show blur is always the same—sticky bodies pressed too close, sweaty arms slung around her shoulders, voices raised to shout over the pulsing bass still vibrating through the walls. Someone hands her a half-empty beer, someone else shoves a cigarette between her fingers, and she stumbles through the crowd, grinning, her pulse still thrumming from the set. The bar is packed, the air thick with smoke and heat, the walls sweating with condensation, and she feels like she’s floating, the edges of her vision blurring, the world tilting beneath her feet.

 

Nat ends up sitting at the bar, one elbow propped against the sticky, beer-soaked counter, a half-warm bottle clutched in her other hand. Some girl with big green eyes and glitter smudged across her cheeks leans in close, presses a tiny white pill into Nat’s palm, whispers something about how much she loved the set, and disappears back into the crowd before Nat can even thank her. She swallows the Xanax dry, feeling it catch in her throat, the bitter chalk scraping against the back of her tongue. She shivers, wipes her mouth, and takes a long pull from her beer, the lukewarm liquid washing the taste away.

 

She’s staring into the crowd, half-listening to the clinking of glasses and the low, throaty laughter of the people around her, when a tall girl steps into her line of sight. Tanned skin, dark hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, big brown eyes catching the neon lights above the bar, reflecting back a deep, endless warmth. Nat blinks, her vision swimming, the girl’s features blurring and sharpening with each slow blink.

 

The girl says something, her voice low, her lips moving too quickly for Nat to catch the words. Nat just stares at her, head cocked to the side, her mind lagging a half second behind, the Xanax already sinking into her bloodstream, dragging her down, turning her thoughts to syrup. The girl notices, chuckles, and leans in closer, her breath warm against Nat’s ear, one hand settling on Nat’s thigh, fingers curling just above the ripped edge of her fishnets.

 

“I’m Lottie,” she says, her voice smooth, the syllables rolling off her tongue like smoke. Her hand stays where it is, her thumb brushing over the thin fabric, tracing a lazy circle against Nat’s bare skin.

 

Nat blinks again, the room snapping into focus for a second, the girl’s sharp, dark eyes catching hers, a slow, amused smile spreading across her lips. Nat swallows, feels the muscles in her thigh tense beneath Lottie’s touch, her pulse stuttering in her chest.

 

“Nat,” she says, her voice coming out rough, throat still raw from the set. She lifts her beer to her lips, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving Lottie’s. “You come here a lot?” It’s a dumb question, cliché, but her brain is too fogged up to come up with anything better.

 

Lottie’s smile widens, her fingers tightening on Nat’s thigh, her nails just barely digging into the skin. “Sometimes,” she says, tilting her head, her hair slipping over one shoulder, catching the light. “But only when the music’s good.”

 

Nat’s lips twitch, a lazy, lopsided grin spreading across her face. “Oh, you liked the set, then?”

 

Lottie’s thumb traces another slow circle against Nat’s thigh, her eyes darkening, her pupils blown wide in the dim light. “I’m a fan,” she says, leaning in again, her lips brushing the shell of Nat’s ear. “You’re… intense up there.”

 

Nat feels a warm, buzzing heat spread through her chest, her nerves lighting up beneath Lottie’s touch, the dull, drugged haze in her head giving way to a sharper, more immediate rush. She sets her beer down, her fingers curling around the edge of the bar, the wood sticky beneath her palms.

 

“You don’t seem like the type to get starstruck,” Nat murmurs, her eyes dropping to Lottie’s lips, the slow, confident curl of them, the way her teeth flash white when she smirks.

 

Lottie laughs, low and throaty, her breath hot against Nat’s cheek, and pulls back just enough to meet Nat’s eyes, her hand still resting on Nat’s thigh, the warmth of her palm sinking through the thin fabric of her stockings. “I’m not,” she says, her eyes never leaving Nat’s. “But you’re not like most people.”

 

Nat’s fingers tighten around the edge of the bar, her heart pounding against her ribs, her head swimming with the fading traces of the Xanax and the sharp, electric pull of Lottie’s touch. She opens her mouth to say something, but Lottie’s already moving, straightening up, her hand slipping from Nat’s thigh, the sudden loss of contact making Nat’s skin prickle with cold.

 

Before she can protest, Lottie reaches over, snatches Nat’s phone off the bar, and taps in her number, her fingers quick and sure against the cracked screen. She hits the call button, waits a second for her own phone to light up in her pocket, and then sets Nat’s phone back down, the corner of her mouth quirking up in a satisfied, almost predatory smile.

 

“I have to go,” she says, her eyes still locked on Nat’s, her hand brushing Nat’s thigh one last time as she steps back, the warmth of her touch lingering long after she’s gone. “But I’m hoping I’ll see you again soon.” She leans in one last time, her lips brushing Nat’s ear again, her voice a low, smoky whisper. “Don’t disappoint me.”

 

And then she’s gone, slipping back into the crowd, her dark hair swaying behind her, her head held high, her stride confident, purposeful. Nat watches her go, the sharp, jangling chords of the house band echoing in her ears, the dull, throbbing ache in her thigh a constant reminder of Lottie’s touch.

 

It happens like this sometimes, pretty girls sliding into her space, pressing their numbers into her phone, dragging their hands over her skin like they’re trying to leave a mark, and Nat takes them home, lets them tug her clothes off in the dark, lets them press their mouths to her skin, lets them pretend they know her. But this one felt different, like Nat was the one who should be begging for attention, like Lottie knew exactly what she was doing, exactly what Nat wanted, without having to say a word.

 

She takes another long, slow sip of her beer, her head still spinning, her heart still racing, and leans back against the bar, her eyes still fixed on the spot where Lottie disappeared. She’ll definitely text her, she thinks, if she remembers any of this in the morning.

 

A couple of hours later, they’re crammed into the back of a beat-up Uber, the leather seats sticky and the air thick with the mingled smells of sweat, smoke, and cheap beer. Nat’s slumped against the window, her cheek pressed to the cool glass, the city lights smearing past in neon streaks, every jolt of the car rattling her already spinning head. She doesn’t even remember what she took after the set, just that someone handed her something small and white, and she swallowed it without a second thought, chasing it with another beer, her pulse already too high to care.

 

Kevyn’s by the opposite window, his head tipped back, eyes closed, one foot tapping out a lazy rhythm against the floorboards. Travis is in the front, leaning forward, one arm draped out the open window, his hair whipping around his face as he shouts something incoherent at the driver, the wind swallowing his words. Mari’s in the middle, her thigh pressed against Nat’s, her hand resting just above Nat’s knee, her fingers drumming a slow, absentminded rhythm against the torn fishnets.

 

Nat’s head lolls to the side, her eyes catching on the sharp line of Mari’s jaw, the way her hair clings to her damp skin, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her neck. She can feel Mari’s fingers creeping higher, the light press of her nails against the soft flesh of her inner thigh, and she lets out a slow, shaky breath, her pulse quickening despite the numb, distant haze settling over her limbs.

 

It starts like this sometimes, the slow, creeping touches, the lazy, half-conscious slide into each other’s space. Most nights they don’t hook up, just stumble home together, collapsing onto the couch or the beanbag or their own separate beds, too high or too drunk or too tired to care about anything but the dull, throbbing ache in their heads. But sometimes, when the show was good or the drugs hit just right, when neither of them ended up in someone else’s bed, they find their way to each other, fingers tangling, teeth scraping, breath mingling in the dark.

 

Mari’s hand slips higher, her fingers pressing into the soft, sensitive skin just above Nat’s fishnets, her thumb brushing the edge of the torn fabric, and Nat’s breath catches, her eyes fluttering closed, the world outside the window blurring into a distant, disconnected hum.

 

She should be into this, should be leaning into Mari’s touch, the familiar press of her nails, the sharp, teasing pressure that usually makes her head swim. But her mind keeps slipping back to Lottie, the warm, confident press of her hand on Nat’s thigh, the slow, knowing smile, the way she leaned in close, her lips brushing Nat’s ear, her breath warm against her skin.

 

She didn’t belong there, Nat thinks, her eyes still closed, her head still resting against the cool glass. She looked too clean, too polished, too put-together to be slumming it in a shitty dive bar with sticky floors and blown-out speakers. She didn’t have the washed-out, ragged edge most of their fans wore like a badge of honor, the faded tattoos and chipped black nail polish, the half-healed piercings and nicotine-stained fingers. She seemed too… rich, too elegant, too untouched by the grime of their world.

 

Nat shivers, her skin prickling with the memory of Lottie’s touch, the slow, lazy drag of her thumb against Nat’s thigh, the way her eyes had locked onto Nat’s, dark and intense, like she already knew how the night would end. Nat can still feel the ghost of her fingers, the faint, lingering warmth of her palm, the low, smoky rasp of her voice curling around her brain like a drug.

 

The car rolls to a stop in front of their building, the brakes screeching, the engine rattling as the driver mutters something in a thick, bored accent. Kevyn stirs, blinking groggily, and reaches for his wallet, fumbling for a handful of crumpled bills as he leans over the seat, muttering a quick, slurred “thanks” before shoving the cash into the driver’s outstretched hand. Travis stumbles out first, his boots hitting the cracked pavement with a dull thud, his shoulders already slumped, his head bowed as he lurches toward the front door.

 

Nat and Mari follow, hands tangled, fingers intertwined, Nat’s pulse still racing beneath her skin, her head still swimming with the fading traces of the drugs, the warm, buzzing echo of the set still ringing in her ears. Mari’s grip is tight, possessive, her nails digging into Nat’s palm as they step onto the cracked, weed-choked sidewalk, the distant sound of sirens echoing off the brick walls around them.

 

Kevyn barely glances back as he shoves the door open, stumbling inside, his footsteps heavy and uneven on the warped, creaking floorboards. Travis is already halfway to the kitchen, muttering something about needing a smoke, his shadow stretching long and distorted against the flickering hallway light.

 

Nat feels Mari’s breath warm against her ear, the low, throaty rasp of her voice cutting through the haze in Nat’s head, sharp and immediate, dragging her back into the moment. “Let’s go to your room,” Mari whispers, her lips brushing the shell of Nat’s ear, her teeth scraping against the metal hoop dangling from Nat’s earlobe.

 

Nat swallows, nods once, her head still too fogged up to form a coherent response, and leads the way, their tangled fingers still clutched tight, their footsteps echoing down the narrow hallway, the door creaking as Nat shoves it open with her shoulder.

 

They stumble into Nat’s room, the door slamming shut behind them, the walls vibrating with the impact. Mari’s on her in an instant, her hands gripping Nat’s hips, her mouth crashing against Nat’s, teeth scraping, tongues clashing, the taste of stale beer and cheap whiskey mingling between them. Nat’s head spins, her pulse racing, but the anxious, jittery energy from earlier is creeping back in, the edge of her high starting to fray, the numb, detached haze slipping away like water through her fingers.

 

She breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to catch her breath, her eyes darting around the dark, cluttered room, her pulse stuttering in her chest. “Wait,” she mutters, her voice rough, slurred. “I need to pee.”

 

Mari groans, her grip tightening on Nat’s hips, her fingers digging into the soft flesh just above Nat’s waistband. “Seriously?” she snaps, her eyes narrowed, her lips still wet, flushed. “You’re killing the mood, Scatorccio.”

 

“I’ll be quick,” Nat mutters, slipping out of Mari’s grasp, already stumbling toward the door. She can feel Mari’s eyes on her, the heat of her glare like a physical weight between her shoulder blades, but she ignores it, her mind already focused on the small, battered pill bottle still tucked into her bra.

 

She slips into the bathroom, flicking the light on with a shaky hand, the harsh, fluorescent glow stinging her eyes. She catches a glimpse of herself in the cracked, water-streaked mirror above the sink—smudged eyeliner, flushed cheeks, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and wet from Mari’s kiss—and grimaces, her reflection a distorted, half-recognizable ghost of herself.

 

She digs into her bra, fingers fumbling against the lace, and pulls out the pill bottle, her hands shaking as she twists off the cap and dumps two small, chalky tablets into her palm. She swallows them dry, her head already starting to float, the edges of her panic softening, the world blurring around her. She takes a deep breath, runs a hand through her tangled hair, and stumbles back into her room, the light flicking off behind her, the shadows swallowing her whole.

 

Mari’s sprawled out on the bed, one leg bent, her skirt riding up her thighs, her head tilted back against the headboard, eyes closed, lips parted, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Nat drops onto the mattress beside her, the springs creaking beneath their combined weight, and leans in, her mouth finding Mari’s again, the kiss slow, languid, her tongue sliding against Mari’s, the taste of cheap whiskey and stale smoke still clinging to their teeth.

 

Mari’s hands slide up Nat’s sides, fingers curling around her ribs, pulling her closer, her thigh pressing between Nat’s legs, the thin fabric of her fishnets catching against Mari’s bare skin. Nat feels her head spinning, her limbs growing heavy, her pulse slowing to a dull, steady throb, the pills sinking into her bloodstream, dragging her down, wrapping her in a warm, suffocating cocoon.

 

Mari’s mouth moves to her neck, teeth scraping against the thin, sensitive skin just below her ear, and Nat lets out a slow, shaky breath, her head tipping back, her eyes slipping closed. She feels Mari’s hands on her waist, fingers curling around the waistband of her skirt, tugging it down over her hips, her fishnets catching on her nails, the fabric stretching, tearing, the cool air prickling against her bare skin.

 

“Jesus, you’re in a rush,” Nat mutters, her voice rough, half-slurred, the words catching in her throat. She forces a lazy, lopsided grin, her fingers slipping into Mari’s hair, pulling her back up for another kiss.

 

Mari just huffs, her breath hot against Nat’s lips, her teeth scraping against Nat’s lower lip as she shoves her back onto the mattress, the springs groaning beneath their weight. “Shut up,” she mutters, her hands slipping down Nat’s sides, her nails dragging against the soft, sensitive flesh just above Nat’s hips.

 

Nat’s head lolls back, her eyes staring up at the cracked, water-stained ceiling, her mind already slipping into that familiar, detached haze, the edges of her thoughts blurring, softening. She feels Mari’s mouth against her collarbone, her tongue tracing the sharp line of her throat, her lips dragging down the center of her chest, over her ribs, her breath hot against Nat’s skin.

 

Mari’s hands grip her thighs, pushing them apart, her mouth moving lower, teeth scraping against the soft flesh of Nat’s inner thigh, her nails digging into the sensitive skin just above her knees. Nat feels the warm, wet heat of Mari’s tongue against her, the slow, lazy circles, the gentle, teasing flicks, but it’s like someone’s touching her through a thick, heavy layer of fog, the sensation distant, muted, her nerves too numbed out to register more than the faintest flicker of pressure.

 

She stares up at the ceiling, her fingers tangled in the sheets, her mind slipping in and out of focus, her pulse a slow, steady thrum in her ears. She knows she should be making noise, should be arching her back, gasping, moaning, anything to let Mari know she’s doing something right, but she can’t feel it, can’t feel anything but the dull, disconnected pressure, the faint, ghostly brush of Mari’s tongue against her clit.

 

Mari pulls back after a few minutes, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts, her lips swollen and wet, her eyes narrowed in frustration. “Is that good?” she asks, her voice tight, almost angry, her fingers still digging into Nat’s thighs, her nails pressing hard enough to leave bruises.

 

Nat forces a weak, shaky nod, her mouth dry, her tongue heavy in her mouth. “Yeah,” she croaks, her voice rough, barely more than a whisper. “Keep going.”

 

Mari hesitates, her eyes searching Nat’s face, her brow furrowing, but then she leans back in, her tongue slipping over Nat’s clit again, her fingers pressing into her, the wet, sticky sounds filling the small, silent room. Nat bites her lip, forces her eyes to stay open, to focus on the cracked, water-stained ceiling above her, her mind slipping into a blank, empty void, her nerves too fried, too numbed out to feel anything.

 

Mari pulls back, wipes her mouth, and sits up, her chest rising and falling like she just ran a marathon. She stares down at Nat, eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched, and Nat can already feel the heat building, the crackling tension in the air, the way Mari’s anger radiates off her in sharp, cutting waves.

 

“You can’t even feel it, can you?” Mari snaps, shoving Nat’s legs off her shoulders, stumbling to her feet, the mattress creaking beneath her sudden movement. “You’re so fucking high you can’t even feel me.”

 

Nat blinks, her head swimming, the ceiling blurring overhead, her pulse a dull, irregular thud in her ears. She stares up at Mari, the words not fully sinking in, her brain still catching up, her tongue thick and clumsy in her mouth. “I feel it,” she mutters, forcing the words out, her voice rough, slurred. “Maybe you’re just not as good as you think you are.”

 

Mari’s face twists, her hands balling into fists at her sides, her whole body vibrating with barely-contained rage. “Oh, fuck off, Nat,” she spits, her voice sharp, cutting, her eyes dark with fury. “You were fine in the car. Now you’re lying there like a fucking corpse. What the hell did you take?”

 

Nat scoffs, rolling her eyes, her head throbbing with the fading echoes of the high. “Jesus, calm down,” she mutters, her fingers curling into the sheets, her pulse spiking, her nerves sparking back to life. “Not my fault you’re not getting me there.”

 

Mari’s jaw tightens, her teeth grinding together, her fists clenching so tight her knuckles turn white. “You’re unbelievable,” she snarls, stepping back from the bed, her hair falling in wild, tangled waves around her flushed face. “You’re so fucked up you can’t even feel me, and you’re trying to make it my fault? You’re a fucking junkie, Nat. You’re gonna die with a needle in your arm, and you know it.”

 

Nat feels her chest tighten, a sharp, burning twist of anger flaring up, her teeth grinding together, her hands clenching into fists. “Oh, go to hell, Mari,” she snaps, forcing herself up onto her elbows, her head spinning, her pulse pounding against her temples. “You’re a bitter, miserable bitch, you know that? You’re gonna die alone because no one can stand you for more than five fucking minutes.”

 

Mari’s eyes flash, her fists shaking at her sides, her breath coming in short, furious bursts. “At least I’m not a fucking coward,” she spits, her voice shaking, her eyes shining with something sharp, wounded, raw. “At least I’m not hiding behind a handful of pills and a bottle of whiskey because I can’t handle being alive. At least I’m not throwing my life away one line at a time.”

 

Nat swings her legs off the bed, the room tilting beneath her, her bare feet hitting the cold, warped floorboards with a dull, hollow thud. She shoves herself to her feet, her pulse thundering in her ears, her vision blurring, her head spinning, and stumbles toward Mari, her fists still clenched, her teeth bared.

 

“Fuck you,” she snarls, shoving Mari toward the door, her fingers digging into Mari’s shoulders, her nails scraping against the thin fabric of her tank top. “Go scream at someone else. I’m not your fucking problem.”

 

Mari shoves back, her eyes blazing, her chest heaving. “You’re right,” she snaps, her voice cracking, her eyes wet, furious. “I’m not your fucking problem, and I’m done wasting my time on you. You’re a lost cause, Nat. You’re a fucking train wreck, and I’m done trying to save you.”

 

She shoves Nat again, hard enough to make her stumble, her back hitting the edge of the bed, her knees buckling, the mattress creaking beneath her sudden weight. Mari turns, yanks the door open, and storms out, her boots thudding against the creaking floorboards, the door slamming shut behind her with a sharp, echoing crack.

 

Nat just stands there for a moment, her chest heaving, her fists still clenched, her pulse still racing, the room spinning around her, the echoes of Mari’s words still ringing in her ears, sharp and bitter, cutting deeper than she’d like to admit.

 

 

The room is too bright.

 

Natalie groans and buries her face deeper into the pillow, but it doesn’t help. The light claws at her eyelids, sharp and unrelenting. Her mouth tastes like ash and regret. Her limbs ache, heavy and limp, her body still buzzing with the residue of last night’s cocktail of whatever-the-fuck.

 

She rolls onto her back, eyes squinting open. The room’s a wreck—clothes everywhere, sheets twisted, the tray from last night still on the floor with a faint dusting of powder she already knows isn’t enough to do anything. She reaches for her nightstand, pulls open the drawer with sluggish fingers. Nothing. She checks the pocket of her skirt. Her bag. Under the mattress. Nothing.

 

“Fuck,” she mutters, voice hoarse. She used it all.

 

A wave of irritation washes over her, quick and sharp. Not just from withdrawal—though her nerves are already on edge, skin crawling—but from the silence. The kind that settles after something goes too far. Her stomach twists.

 

Mari.

 

Nat pushes herself up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, head hanging between her knees for a second as the world tries to spin her off its axis. She closes her eyes, breathes deep. The room smells like sweat and smoke and shame.

 

Her phone buzzes against the floor where it must’ve fallen sometime in the night. She leans down, grabs it, squints at the screen. Unknown number.

 

“You looked hot up there last night. Hope I get to see that again.”

 

Nat stares at the text, her brows furrowed, brain slow to connect the dots. Her thumb hovers. Then it clicks—tanned skin, big brown eyes, fingers pressing into her thigh like they belonged there. That cocky fucking smirk.

 

Lottie.

 

Her heart gives a slow, heavy thud. She exhales through her nose, rubbing at her temples as the memory rolls over her. That voice in her ear. That confidence. Like Lottie already knew how Nat tasted without having to try.

 

She types back, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of her mouth despite everything else weighing down her chest:

 

“There’s another gig tonight. Come. I’ll make it worth it.”

 

She hits send, then stares at the screen a second longer before tossing the phone onto the bed beside her. The giddiness fades fast. Lottie is… interesting. New. Dangerous, probably. But the pit in her stomach that’s been there since she woke up is still twisting, still sharp.

 

Mari’s words from last night echo, dull and mean and probably more true than Nat wants to admit.

 

She drags herself to her feet, padding across the floor to grab a hoodie and shorts. She doesn’t know what she’s going to say, but she knows she has to say something. Mari doesn’t let things go easy—not when she’s hurt, not when she’s mad. And Nat had been cruel. Mari might be a bitch, but she didn’t deserve that.

 

Nat pauses by the door, hand hovering over the knob, and swallows hard.

 

Maybe she’ll just start with “sorry.”

 

She hesitates outside Mari’s door, chewing at the inside of her cheek. She hates this part—when the dust starts to settle and the silence feels heavier than the screaming did. She lifts a hand, knocks once, then twice more, softer.

 

No answer.

 

She tries the knob. It’s unlocked.

 

Mari’s room is the polar opposite of hers. Neat, soft, too warm. The bed is made. The windows are open just enough to let in light and breeze. There’s a candle burning on the dresser, something floral and expensive-smelling. Her posters are framed. Her books are stacked. Her guitar is hung on the wall like art.

 

Mari’s sitting on the bed, legs crossed, her hair tied back, face bare. She looks up when Nat steps in, expression flat. Cold.

 

“What do you want?”

 

Nat exhales. “To say sorry.”

 

Mari doesn’t answer. Just stares.

 

Nat glances around like the room might give her something else to say. She rubs at the back of her neck. “Last night, I was—”

 

“Fucked up?” Mari cuts in, eyebrows raised. “Yeah. That much was obvious.”

 

Nat shifts, hands dropping to her sides. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

 

“Which part?” Mari asks, voice tight. “That I’m gonna die alone? That I’m not good at going down on you? That no one can stand me for more than five minutes?”

 

Nat flinches. “Mari—come on.”

 

“No.” Mari stands now, her arms crossed. “Don’t come in here with that guilty look and act like sorry’s gonna cut it. This isn’t new, Nat. You don’t just get to brush it off again.”

 

“I’m trying,” Nat mutters.

 

“Not hard enough.” Mari’s voice rises a little. “You’re always high. Always. Before shows. After. At home. You don’t even talk like a person anymore—just float around waiting for your next hit.”

 

“I’m not—” Nat’s jaw tightens. “It’s not like that.”

 

“You couldn’t even feel your own fucking body last night, Nat.” Mari’s eyes narrow. “That’s what it’s like.”

 

And that does it. Nat’s guilt flashes into anger, sudden and hot.

 

“Yeah? Well maybe if you weren’t such a control freak with a god complex, you’d actually get it,” Nat snaps. “Maybe if you weren’t always watching me, waiting for me to fail, I wouldn’t have to be numb all the time.”

 

Mari’s face hardens. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

 

“I know you like being right,” Nat shoots back. “I know you like playing the one who’s got it all together. But you’re just as miserable, Mari. You just pretend better.”

 

Before Mari can answer, a voice cuts in.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Travis groans from the hallway. “Can you two cool it for five fucking minutes? Big gig tonight, remember? Maybe save the therapy session for after?”

 

Neither of them says anything. Nat’s fists are clenched at her sides. Mari’s face is blank now, closed off completely.

 

Mari glances at Travis, then back at Nat. “Right. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your moment in the spotlight.”

 

Nat’s jaw tightens. “Go fuck yourself.”

 

Mari turns her back.

 

Nat storms out, heart pounding in her chest like a snare drum. She slams her bedroom door so hard a poster falls from the wall.

 

She stands in the middle of her room, shaking, furious, and empty all at once.

 

 

Nat’s ready, at least on the surface.

 

Fishnets, boots, eyeliner sharper than she feels. Her lips are tinted red and her hair’s still damp from the cold shower she forced herself to take just to stop shaking. She hasn’t touched a single pill or line all day. She’s stone cold sober and it’s hell. Everything feels too bright. Too loud. Her skin itches, her jaw’s clenched, her hands won’t stop fidgeting. But she’s doing it.

 

Because fuck Mari.

 

Because she’s not a junkie. Not like that.

 

Travis pokes his head into her room as she’s adjusting the strap on her guitar. “You good?”

 

She doesn’t look up. “Obviously.”

 

He holds up his hands. “Alright, just asking.”

 

Kevyn appears behind him, already wearing his ‘please don’t fight before we go on stage’ face. “You sure you don’t want water or—”

 

“I said I’m fine,” Nat snaps, sharper than she means to, but too far in to pull it back.

 

They exchange a look, say nothing.

 

Mari’s already at the door, arms crossed, silent. Her silence is louder than anything. That pisses Nat off more than anything else. If she yelled, at least Nat could yell back. But this silence? It feels like judgment.

 

She doesn’t say anything. Just walks past them all, guitar case in hand, her boots thudding against the hallway floor.

 

Her phone buzzes as they pile into the van. She flips it open, heart spiking before she even reads the screen.

 

Lottie: I’ll be there. Don’t disappoint me.

 

Nat exhales, leans back in her seat. Good. She needs that tonight. She’s not going to sleep here again. Not with this energy. Not with Mari’s silence like a knife to her ribs.

 

She tucks the phone into her back pocket, slides her sunglasses on despite the fading light, and stares out the window, jaw tight.

 

She’s going to kill this show. Sober.

 

She’s going to make Lottie want her even more.

 

And she’s definitely not coming home.

 

 

The set’s over, and Natalie’s drenched. In sweat, in effort, in the sharp-edged silence that follows applause. She killed it—she knows she did—but every second of it was fucking hell.

 

No haze to blur the lights. No cushion to land on. Just her voice ripping out of her throat and her hands shaking on the strings. Every word she sang felt like being skinned. The crowd didn’t notice, of course. They cheered. They reached for her. But Nat was somewhere else—locked in her own head, counting every breath, every second she didn’t run off stage and bury herself in whatever powder she could find.

 

And then there was Mari.

 

Staring at her the whole damn time, like she was waiting for her to break. Like she expected it. Nat didn’t give her the satisfaction—but the look stuck like a thorn in her spine.

 

Now she’s moving through the crowd, her boots sticking to the floor, sweat cooling too fast on her neck, her hoodie tied around her waist. Her hand wraps around a beer someone hands her. Just a beer. She sips it slow, like it might steady her hands, her heart.

 

She’s about to head outside for air when she sees her.

 

Lottie.

 

She walks through the crowd like the room parts for her. Like she’s immune to the heat and the noise and the beer-soaked floor. She’s wearing a dress—deep wine red, tight at the waist, silky and fluid as she moves. Her hair’s down, loose and perfect, framing her face like it was styled to fall that way. Her skin glows under the shitty overhead lights, tan and smooth, and her eyes—Jesus—those eyes are locked on Nat like they’ve been looking for her all night.

 

She doesn’t belong here. Not in this dive with its peeling paint and crusty speakers and half-drunk regulars yelling over each other. She looks like she stepped out of somewhere expensive and made the whole bar bend around her.

 

Nat smirks into her beer.

 

Lottie sees her, doesn’t hesitate. Just walks right over like she already owns the space between them.

 

There’s that smile again—that slow, confident curl of her lips like she knows Nat’s been waiting. Like she knows she’s the one thing Nat can’t dull down or snort away.

 

And fuck, she might be right.

 

Lottie reaches her, and it’s like the noise of the bar dulls for a second—just the two of them in the thick of it. Nat leans back against the edge of the bar, half-smirk already in place, eyes dragging over Lottie’s dress like she’s still trying to believe she’s real.

 

“You’re overdressed,” Nat says, tilting her head, beer dangling from her fingers. “Or maybe I’m underdressed.”

 

Lottie doesn’t blink. Just lets her hand rest casually on Nat’s bare forearm, her nails light against the skin. “You’re perfect,” she says, voice low, just loud enough to hear. “All eyes were on you.”

 

Nat raises a brow. “That so?”

 

“Could barely pay attention to the music,” Lottie says, smiling now, slow and deliberate. “Too busy watching your mouth.”

 

Nat takes a long sip of her beer to cover the way that hits her, then tips her chin toward the bar. “What’re you drinking?”

 

“Surprise me.”

 

Nat nods, pushes off the counter. She gets her something decent—bourbon neat, something that says I’m not here to fuck around—and hands it over without comment. Their fingers brush. Lottie holds her gaze as she takes the glass, sips, and lets out a soft, satisfied hum.

 

“You always this generous to your fans?” she asks, eyes glinting over the rim of the glass.

 

“Only the ones who put their number in my phone before I ask,” Nat says, leaning in just a little. She can smell Lottie’s perfume now—rich, floral, expensive. She doesn’t belong here, but she’s thriving in it.

 

Lottie shifts a little closer, hand settling just above Nat’s hip, her touch light, possessive. “You seemed like the type who’d be more… selective.”

 

Nat grins, tongue running along her bottom lip. “I am. Lucky you.”

 

The beat between them is taut, electric. Lottie’s still smiling, relaxed, but there’s heat behind it now—slow-building, steady. Nat feels it pull low in her stomach. The beer’s barely touched, but she’s drunk on the attention.

 

She leans in, her voice dipping. “You came all this way just to flirt, or are you planning on staying a while?”

 

Lottie chuckles softly, her fingers grazing the waistband of Nat’s jeans. “That depends.”

 

“On?”

 

“If you’re as good with your mouth off stage as you are on it.”

 

That makes Nat bark a quiet laugh. “You’re gonna make me prove it?”

 

Lottie just shrugs one shoulder, like she already knows the answer.

 

Nat watches her for a moment, the soft curve of her mouth, the way her nails tap against the glass like she’s in no rush. But Nat already knows—knows from the moment she saw her walk through the crowd, from the first smirk, the first glance—that she’ll be spending the night between Lottie’s legs.

 

And for the first time in a while, it’s not about forgetting anything. It’s about feeling something.

 

She tilts her head, finishing her beer in one slow sip, and says, “Finish your drink. Then let’s get out of here.”

 

Lottie raises a brow at Nat’s line, sipping her bourbon like she’s in no hurry at all.

 

“You think I’m taking you home?” she says, voice cool, laced with amusement, head tilted just enough to seem innocent—if Nat didn’t catch the spark behind her eyes.

 

Nat smirks, leaning in again, close enough that their knees brush, that she can feel the warmth radiating off Lottie’s skin. “No,” she says, low and certain. “I think I’m taking you home.”

 

Lottie laughs, soft and rich, eyes narrowing like she’s impressed. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t blink. Just sets her drink down on the bar, slow and deliberate, fingers grazing Nat’s wrist again as if to test how close she can get without making it obvious.

 

“You’re confident,” she murmurs.

 

Nat shrugs, eyes locked on Lottie’s mouth. “I’m right.”

 

The silence between them hums—thick, hot, charged. Lottie shifts closer, just slightly, and Nat can feel it now—pressure pooling low in her stomach, a slow, undeniable ache. She hasn’t even kissed her yet, and her body’s already betraying her, wanting. Lottie hasn’t done anything but look at her and speak in that low, velvet voice, and Nat’s thighs are pressing together like instinct.

 

Fucking hell.

 

Lottie tilts her head again, still watching her. “You always this easy to fluster?”

 

Nat scoffs, but it’s thin. Her breath catches as Lottie drags her fingers along the edge of Nat’s waistband, featherlight.

 

“I’m not flustered,” Nat lies.

 

“You’re wet,” Lottie says simply, and Nat’s pulse spikes so fast it’s almost dizzying.

 

She opens her mouth—cocky comeback ready, something slick and deflective—but nothing comes out. Lottie just smiles, all calm, all knowing, and picks her drink back up like they’re not in the middle of something that’s already too much.

 

Nat watches her sip again and swears under her breath, eyes narrowing like she’s preparing for a game she’s not used to losing.

 

Lottie leans in again, the space between them dissolving like it never mattered. Her lips brush the edge of Nat’s ear—not quite a kiss, but enough to make Nat shiver.

 

“You talk a big game,” she whispers, voice low and smooth like velvet dragged across skin. “But I’m starting to think you want me to wreck you.”

 

Nat exhales, sharp and shaky. Her fingers curl around the edge of the bar. She can feel it again—her body pulling tight, heat licking up her spine, pulse heavy between her legs. She hasn’t even touched Lottie, and it’s already too much.

 

She turns her head slightly, close enough that her nose brushes Lottie’s cheek. “I said let’s get out of here,” Nat murmurs. “Unless you’re scared I’ll prove you right.”

 

Lottie pulls back just enough to meet her eyes—dark, unreadable, but the smirk is there, subtle and lethal. Then she sets her half-finished drink down without a second thought and reaches for Nat’s hand.

 

No hesitation.

 

Her fingers slip between Nat’s like they’ve done this before. Like it’s natural.

 

“Come on then,” Lottie says, and just like that, she turns, leading her through the crowd like the whole bar’s parted just for them.

 

Nat follows, her hand still in Lottie’s, and she doesn’t look back once. Her boots crunch against sticky floors. The bass fades behind them. The air outside hits cold against her skin, but it doesn’t matter.

 

She’s not going home.

 

She’s going with Lottie.

 

And she already knows—tonight’s going to fuck her up in a completely different way.

 

The cab ride is a blur. Nat doesn’t remember Lottie giving the address, doesn’t remember half of what Lottie murmured in her ear with that maddening calm voice. All she knows is that they’re in Manhattan, and it’s a good part—clean sidewalks, quiet streets, the kind of place people with real money live.

 

And then they’re at the building. A doorman.

 

A fucking doorman.

 

Nat whistles low under her breath as they step into the sleek, minimalist lobby—glass, marble, soft lights. Lottie doesn’t say anything, just nods at the guy behind the desk like she’s done this a thousand times. Nat follows, still holding her hand, trying not to stare.

 

The elevator ride is quiet, humming with tension. Nat can feel it in her chest, that slow-blooming thrill, the way her body’s alive in a way it hasn’t been in weeks. Her hands aren’t shaking. Her head’s clear. She wants this. She feels this.

 

When the elevator opens, Lottie leads her down the hall and into her apartment. High floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows. City lights bleeding in. Everything is clean, modern, too white to feel lived-in. Sharp furniture, glass and chrome, a place that smells like real candles instead of smoke and takeout.

 

“Jesus,” Nat mutters, stepping in, eyes wide. “What are you, a secret heiress?”

 

Lottie tosses her keys on a sleek marble counter, toeing her heels off without looking back. “Something like that,” she says lightly, crossing into the open kitchen. “Drink?”

 

Nat barely hears her. She’s looking at the view—Midtown glittering outside like something from a movie, buildings tall and silent and far away. The place feels like a different world.

 

“I’m good,” Nat says, turning, walking toward her without hesitation.

 

She grabs Lottie’s hand, pulls her close, and kisses her.

 

Hard.

 

No warm-up, no testing. Just mouth on mouth, heat against heat. And fuck, it’s good. Lottie kisses like she knows exactly what she’s doing—like she’s not just responding, she’s controlling it. Her lips soft but insistent, her body pressing in close, chest to chest.

 

Nat melts into it instantly.

 

This. This is what she wanted. To feel everything. To be completely in it. No filter, no numbness, just skin and mouth and the taste of someone who wants her just as badly.

 

Then Lottie licks into her mouth—slow, intentional, claiming—and Nat’s gone.

 

Completely, totally fucking gone.

 

She breaks the kiss, breathless, lips swollen, eyes wild. “Where’s your room?”

 

Lottie smirks, her hand already at Nat’s waistband. “That way.”

 

Nat doesn’t wait for a second invitation.

 

Lottie leads her down a short hallway, past minimalist art and soft golden lighting, into a bedroom that looks like it belongs in a design magazine—soft, neutral tones, linen curtains fluttering slightly with the breeze from a cracked window, and a bed that takes up the center of the room like it was made for worship.

 

Nat stands in the doorway for a second, taking it in.

 

Then Lottie turns, and those brown eyes are on her again—steady, unhurried, sure. She reaches for Nat’s hand and pulls her in, fingers trailing along her wrist as she walks her backward toward the bed.

 

Nat goes willingly.

 

When the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress, she lets herself fall, just enough for the softness to catch her. And it’s—fuck—it’s like sinking into clouds. The sheets are smooth, expensive, crisp in that way only rich people’s bedding manages to be. They smell like Lottie’s perfume.

 

Lottie leans over her, straddling her hips without fully settling down, and kisses her again. Slower this time. Exploratory. Her tongue slips into Nat’s mouth with heat and purpose, and Nat moans into it, her hands sliding up Lottie’s thighs, feeling the silk of her dress bunch beneath her fingers.

 

It’s almost overwhelming—how much she can feel. The weight of Lottie above her, the press of her mouth, the glide of her tongue. Nat feels every inch of it. Every breath. Every graze of fingers. It makes her dizzy in the best way.

 

Lottie kisses her like she’s unraveling her. Like she wants to learn every inch of her mouth before going lower.

 

When their mouths finally part, Nat’s panting softly, eyes dark, hands restless. “You always kiss like that?”

 

Lottie grins. “You always ask questions you already know the answer to?”

 

Nat laughs under her breath, her fingers hooking into the sides of Lottie’s dress, dragging it up her thighs. Lottie leans back just enough to let her, sliding the straps off her shoulders and pulling the fabric down, slow and unhurried.

 

Nat watches it all. The way Lottie moves. The way she doesn’t seem rushed. The way she wants this to last.

 

And Nat—she wants more. So much more.

 

She sits up, catches Lottie’s bottom lip between her teeth, and mutters, “Take mine off too.”

 

Lottie obliges.

 

She undresses Nat like she’s unwrapping something delicate, not tearing clothes off in desperation but learning her. Fingers on buttons, fabric peeled back. Nat lies back again, bare skin against those impossibly soft sheets, breath shallow, heart racing.

 

Lottie kisses down her neck, her hands roaming with slow confidence. And Nat—completely sober, completely present—lets herself feel every second of it.

 

And wants.

 

Wants like she hasn’t in a long time.

 

Lottie moves over her like she belongs there—knees bracketing Nat’s hips, hands sliding up her sides, fingers grazing over ribs and skin still warm from the stage. The dress slips away entirely, leaving her in a matching bra and panties, deep red lace, delicate and perfectly fucking unfair.

 

Nat can’t help it—her eyes drag down Lottie’s body and linger. “You wore that under the dress?”

 

Lottie smirks, leaning down again, her lips brushing the corner of Nat’s mouth. “Told you I was hoping to see you again.”

 

And then her mouth is at Nat’s neck, tongue dragging over her pulse point, slow and hot. Nat exhales shakily, her hands roaming over Lottie’s back, digging into soft skin and the edge of lace.

 

The kisses trail down, under her jaw, along the curve of her neck. Lottie licks just beneath her ear, slow and deliberate, and Nat gasps, her body arching up into her. It hits something deep, something she didn’t know was so sensitive. Lottie feels it—laughs low in her throat, pleased—and licks there again.

 

Nat’s fingers clutch at her hips, grounding herself. “Fuck,” she breathes.

 

Lottie’s hands slide up, cupping her breasts through the thin fabric of her bralette, thumbs brushing over the peaks until they harden under her touch. Then she pinches—firm, just short of too much.

 

Nat moans, loud and wrecked, head tipping back against the pillows. Her thighs tense beneath Lottie, hips twitching up.

 

“Oh,” Lottie murmurs, voice lazy, pleased. “There she is.”

 

Nat lets out a breathless laugh, eyes fluttering open. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”

 

Lottie leans down, nose brushing Nat’s, lips barely touching. “I told you at the bar,” she whispers. “You want me to wreck you.”

 

Nat just groans, dragging her nails lightly down Lottie’s sides, breath coming quicker now, every nerve in her body on high alert. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe I do.”

 

And fuck, she does. More than she can admit.

 

Lottie’s hand trails down Nat’s stomach, fingers slow and sure, like she’s taking her time just to make Nat squirm. She dips lower, slipping under the waistband of Nat’s underwear, and Nat’s breath catches hard in her throat.

 

She watches Lottie’s face as her fingers find her—wet, aching, completely gone already—and sees it: that knowing, smug curve of her mouth, like she’d expected nothing less.

 

Lottie leans in, her lips brushing Nat’s ear again as she whispers, “Knew you’d be soaked for me.”

 

Nat groans, her thighs twitching. She should come up with something cocky to say—some smart, biting reply—but her brain is mush, every nerve concentrated on Lottie’s hand sliding lower, between.

 

The first touch is soft. Barely there. A lazy drag of her fingers through the slick, just enough to make Nat gasp and clutch the sheets. Her hips lift without meaning to, chasing the pressure, but Lottie pulls back just enough, her fingers playing with her but never quite giving what she needs.

 

Nat grits her teeth. “Lottie…”

 

Lottie kisses her neck again. “What?”

 

“You’re teasing.”

 

“I am,” she agrees, tone warm and maddeningly calm. “And you’re letting me.”

 

She presses in with two fingers, slow and shallow, just enough to stretch her open but not enough to satisfy. Nat chokes on a moan, thighs falling wider, hands gripping Lottie’s arms now, nails digging in.

 

“More,” she whispers, breathless.

 

Lottie curls her fingers slightly but keeps the pace slow, building pressure without release, her palm slick with how much Nat is already giving her.

 

“I want to taste you,” Lottie murmurs into her ear, licking the shell of it right after. “But not until you beg.”

 

Nat’s whole body clenches.

 

She could fight it. Could pretend she’s still got the upper hand. But it’s already too late. Her pride’s slipping fast, replaced with heat, need, desperation.

 

She turns her head, breath ragged, lips brushing Lottie’s cheek as she says, “Please. I need your mouth. Please.”

 

Lottie smiles against her skin, and Nat’s never begged before—not like this, not sober, not so willingly—but there’s no pretending anymore. She wants to be ruined by her.

 

Lottie kisses her way down, slow and steady, like she’s savoring the moment as much as Nat is barely holding onto it. She pulls Nat’s underwear down with a firm tug, then slides her hands under Nat’s thighs, spreading her open, settling between her legs like she’s meant to live there.

 

When her mouth finally touches her, Nat almost sobs.

 

It’s too much and not enough. Lottie licks her like she’s studied her—long, deliberate strokes, tongue soft and wet and so fucking precise. Every pass hits somewhere electric. Her moans come easy, falling out of her mouth with every breath. Her hands twist in the sheets, desperate to hold onto something.

 

But Lottie’s too slow.

 

Too careful.

 

She’s not trying to make Nat come. She’s trying to ruin her.

 

Nat arches her hips, but Lottie just pins her down, strong hands pressing into her thighs, holding her open. She flattens her tongue and licks again, deliberately avoiding Nat’s clit this time, dragging her mouth down, then back up—just enough pressure to make her squirm, never enough to tip her over.

 

“Fuck—Lottie,” Nat gasps, her voice already raw. “Please—don’t stop—please.”

 

Lottie doesn’t stop.

 

But she doesn’t give her what she wants either.

 

She pulls back instead, her mouth wet and glistening, her eyes dark and hooded as she looks up. Her voice is a whisper, low and steady. “You’re so close,” she says, smug and calm like she has all the time in the world. “But you don’t get to come yet.”

 

Then she slides two fingers back inside, fast this time—deep, smooth, perfect. Nat’s body jerks, a strangled sound ripped from her throat as her walls clench around her.

 

“Yes—fuck—yes,” she gasps, hands flying down to grip Lottie’s wrists. “Don’t stop—please—”

 

Lottie curls her fingers just right, thrusts harder, faster, every movement purposeful. But her mouth—God, Nat needs her mouth back. She’s so close she’s trembling, every nerve lit up, soaked and shaking and right on the edge.

 

“Lottie,” she begs again, desperate now, breath catching, voice breaking. “Your mouth—fuck, I need your mouth—please.”

 

Lottie pauses.

 

Then smirks.

 

And leans back down.

 

Lottie’s mouth is back on her and it’s different now—no more teasing, no more restraint. Her tongue circles Nat’s clit with devastating precision, her fingers still thrusting deep and steady, curling just right with every motion. The rhythm is relentless, calculated. And Nat? She’s falling apart.

 

Her legs shake, back arching off the bed, fingers tangled in Lottie’s hair, tugging hard. She’s panting, moaning, every sound shameless and rough. All that tension that built up—hours of it, days maybe—coils tight inside her until it snaps.

 

She comes hard.

 

Harder than she has in a long, long time.

 

Her vision whites out, body locked, trembling as Lottie keeps licking through it, drawing it out, merciless and steady until Nat is whimpering, twitching, too sensitive to breathe right. She doesn’t say anything—can’t. And she doesn’t need to. Lottie knows. Lottie fucking knows.

 

She looks up, face flushed, lips slick and glistening, chin wet with Nat. And she looks pleased. That smug little glint in her eyes says it all: I told you I’d wreck you.

 

She crawls up Nat’s body, slow and sure, and kisses her—deep and possessive. Nat can taste herself on Lottie’s tongue, head still spinning, body spent, and it only makes her moan again, softer now, lazy and open-mouthed.

 

When Lottie pulls back, her eyes are still locked on Nat’s as she brings her hand up—the one that was inside her just seconds ago—and presses her fingers to Nat’s lips.

 

Nat doesn’t hesitate.

 

She grabs Lottie’s wrist, holds it tight, and sucks her fingers in deep—slow, filthy, never breaking eye contact. Her tongue curls around them, lips closing, cheeks hollowing just enough.

 

Lottie’s breath stutters, eyes going wide, her cool cracked open for a second, replaced with something raw and undone.

 

“Jesus,” she whispers.

 

And Nat—still riding the aftershocks, mouth full of herself, eyes dark and wild—smirks just enough to make it hurt.

 

Nat doesn’t waste another second. Still breathless, still wrecked, she keeps Lottie on top but takes control, grabbing her by the waist, pulling her down hard so their bodies are pressed, skin to lace. She looks up at her like she’s starving, then leans in and licks a slow stripe over the swell of Lottie’s breast through that red lace bra.

 

It’s soaked already, sticking to her skin. Nat mouths over it, then sucks one nipple through the fabric, wet and rough and messy. She groans against it, not even trying to be gentle. She doesn’t want to be.

 

Lottie moans—loud, unrestrained—and her fingers dig into Nat’s shoulders.

 

Nat smirks, bites down lightly, then sucks harder, letting her tongue swirl before pulling off with a wet sound. She shifts to the other one, giving it the same treatment, licking until Lottie’s shaking above her.

 

“God, you’re loud,” Nat mutters, voice hoarse, teasing. “What happened to all that control?”

 

Lottie gasps, back arching as she rocks against her. “You happened.”

 

That does something to Nat—deep in her chest. She growls low, grabs Lottie’s ass in both hands, squeezes hard. The slap echoes in the room, sharp and perfect.

 

Lottie moans again—head tipped back, spine arching, loving it. She grinds down against Nat’s thigh without thinking, her soaked panties dragging along skin already flushed and sensitive.

 

Nat can feel it—feel how wet she is through the fabric, hot and messy against her thigh—and it drives her fucking insane.

 

“You’re soaked,” Nat murmurs, lips brushing against Lottie’s chest. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

 

Lottie looks down at her, lips parted, pupils blown wide, chest rising fast.

 

Nat pulls her in and kisses her—filthy now, tongues tangling, teeth clashing, their bodies rocking together. Lottie’s hips are grinding without rhythm now, desperate for more, and Nat’s letting her—watching her—drag herself against her thigh like she’s got no pride left.

 

Nat bites her lip when she pulls back. “You’re gonna beg for it just like I did,” she says, voice low, dark. “Aren’t you?”

 

Lottie doesn’t answer—but her next moan is enough.

 

Nat grabs a handful of Lottie’s ass again, hard—another sharp smack that echoes off the clean, expensive walls of the apartment. Lottie jolts forward with a moan, clutching Nat’s shoulders tighter, grinding down needier now, breath stuttering in her throat.

 

“Fuck,” Nat mutters, half in awe, half wrecked. She slides her other hand down, between them, no hesitation, and thrusts her fingers up into her—hard, deep.

 

Lottie cries out, body going rigid for a second, and Nat swears under her breath. She’s so wet there’s no resistance, just heat and slick and the clench of her walls fluttering around Nat’s fingers like she’s been waiting for this all night.

 

Maybe she has.

 

“Jesus,” Nat growls, watching her come undone, “you feel so fucking good.” She curls her fingers up, starts working into her, fast and deep, letting Lottie ride it out with her mouth pressed open against her shoulder, moaning like she can’t help it.

 

Nat’s eyes flutter closed for a second, overwhelmed by how tight, how hot, how perfect she feels around her fingers.

 

She’s addicted already.

 

But it’s not enough.

 

She wants more. She wants to taste her. Needs her everywhere.

 

She pulls back just enough to grab Lottie’s chin, tilts her face up, kisses her once—hard, messy—then breaks away, breathless. “Get up,” she pants.

 

Lottie blinks, dazed, flushed.

 

Nat smirks, fingers still buried deep inside her. “I want you to sit on my face.”

 

Lottie’s breath catches audibly.

 

“I want to taste you properly,” Nat murmurs, voice low and certain, hand sliding out of her only to grip her thigh and guide her up. “Now.”

 

Lottie’s eyes are dark, lips parted, face wrecked—but she nods, slow and trembling, and shifts her knees up higher, over Nat’s shoulders.

 

Nat lies back, licking her lips, and waits—eyes locked with Lottie’s, mouth open, ready.

 

Lottie lowers herself onto Nat’s face with a soft, shaky gasp, and the second her heat presses against her mouth, Nat moans—deep, low, desperate. Her hands grip Lottie’s thighs, fingers sinking into soft skin as she pulls her down and devours her.

 

This—this is where Lottie belongs.

 

Not in some perfect, sterile apartment or in the arms of someone polite and clean. No. Here. On Nat’s face. With her thighs trembling, her voice breaking, her body giving out.

 

Nat’s whole world narrows to this. The taste of her—Jesus Christ—she tastes as good as she fucking looks. Sweet and warm and just the right kind of messy. Every swipe of her tongue earns her another moan, another twitch of Lottie’s hips above her.

 

She circles her clit slowly at first, letting it build, letting Lottie roll her hips against her mouth, riding it out on her own rhythm. Nat breathes her in like oxygen. Like she’s drowning in it.

 

Fuck, I’m jealous of chairs, she thinks, eyes flicking open for a second just to watch her.

 

Lottie’s head is tilted back, one hand bracing against the headboard, the other tugging at Nat’s hair. Her tits bounce with every movement, her breath ragged, skin flushed, thighs starting to shake. Her moans aren’t pretty anymore—they’re real. Raw.

 

Nat groans against her, grips tighter, licking harder now, deeper, sloppier. She drags her tongue in circles, then flicks fast, just the way Lottie responded to before. Lottie’s hips buck, and she pulls Nat’s hair, hard enough to sting.

 

Nat moans louder.

 

It doesn’t hurt—it feels right. Feels like ownership. Like surrender.

 

Lottie’s thighs clamp around her head as she falls apart, hips grinding down with frantic, helpless rhythm. Her whole body goes taut, a cry torn from her lips as she comes, soaking Nat’s mouth, shivering above her like she’s unraveling at the seams.

 

Nat holds her through it, tongue still moving, still tasting, still wanting more. Because this—this is her new addiction. Not the coke, not the pills.

 

Lottie.

 

This perfect fucking girl shaking above her, undone and wild and sitting on her face like she belongs there forever.

 

Nat doesn’t want to feel anything else ever again.

 

Lottie’s still trembling when she sinks down, thighs loose and unsteady, bracing herself on Nat’s stomach as she catches her breath. Her eyes are closed, lips parted, flushed all over. She looks wrecked. Beautifully so.

 

Nat doesn’t move. Just watches her, chest rising and falling under Lottie’s weight, completely soaked, completely blissed out, completely gone.

 

Then Lottie opens her eyes and leans in.

 

She licks Nat’s face clean—slow, deliberate strokes over her chin, her cheek, tasting herself without a trace of shame. Nat groans, hands tightening on Lottie’s hips as their mouths meet again. The kiss is slower now, deeper, messier. Less hungry. More full.

 

Their bodies cool under the sheets. The sweat dries. The tension lingers.

 

Eventually, they part with a breath and a small, warm silence stretches between them. Nat runs a hand down Lottie’s spine, fingers tracing the dip of her back.

 

“I should go,” Nat says, voice low and a little hoarse.

 

Lottie shifts but doesn’t move off her. “Yeah?”

 

Nat nods. “Yeah. But…” she hesitates, which surprises even her. “Can I see you again?”

 

Lottie raises an eyebrow, slow smile forming. “Hmm. Maybe.”

 

Nat rolls her eyes, though she’s smiling too. “Don’t mess with me. I’m emotionally fragile.”

 

“After that performance?” Lottie teases, leaning down to kiss her again—slow and filthy just for the hell of it. “You seemed pretty sturdy.”

 

Nat groans, shifting under her. “No, I mean it. I need to taste you again.”

 

Lottie hums. “Alright,” she says, soft and smug. “You’ve earned it.”

 

They get up eventually, moving slow like they’re both reluctant to break the spell. Nat pulls her clothes back on in silence, watching Lottie move through the soft light of the apartment.

 

Lottie walks her to the door. Kisses her again, lingering, hands on Nat’s jaw like she wants to memorize the shape of her.

 

Nat steps into the hallway, heart thudding.

 

She walks away and doesn’t look back.

 

But her mind is spinning.

 

You never see anyone again.

 

That’s the rule. One night, one hit, then gone. Except Mari—but that’s different. That’s Mari. That’s her friend. Her chaos twin. Her sharp edge.

 

But Lottie?

 

Lottie is something else. Something clean and controlled and addictive in a way that makes her teeth ache.

 

Nat didn’t want to go home tonight—but staying felt too dangerous. Too good. So she left.

 

But as the elevator hums down and the city comes back into view below her, she already knows:

 

She’ll be back.

 

Fuck.